The Piano, chapter 4
It has been a week since That Night, as Wilson has come to think of it. The impersonal appellation lets him avoid
thinking too closely about what happened, or about how much more deeply Julie’s
bitter silence cuts him in the aftermath.
He really had intended the kiss to be no more than comforting.
“I thought I could win her back.” House’s voice is casual as he squints at some distant point of noninterest.
Wilson shifts gears with the ease of long practice. He likes House’s problems better than his own, anyway. “By calling her names, taunting her husband, and invading her privacy? Brilliant plan. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because, Doctor Pantypeeler, name-calling is how your relationships end.” Humor is safer ground, and House meets his eyes with a playful smirk. “Mine, on the other hand, start that way. It’s part of my charm.”
Wilson regards House thoughtfully for a long moment. “Did you really think she would leave him?”
House looks away. “I think she’d be happier.”
“Really? Or just that you’d be happier?”
Exasperation colors House’s sigh. “He … he lets her walk all over him. He doesn’t challenge her. She might as well have married a Care Bear.”
“Or maybe she’s just discovered the pleasure of having a conversation with someone who doesn’t make everything about winning.”
“Great insight from someone who’s conversed his way into two divorces. And speaking of divorce, how is Dr. Morgen today? Coffee in your office again this morning, I noticed.”
“Are we back to this again? You know, just because you don’t know how to make friends with people…”
“Oh, please,” House interrupts. “You don’t make friends with women. You make wives of them.”
Wilson bites back a sharp retort. He doesn’t want to have this fight, doesn’t want to talk to House about Julie, definitely doesn’t want to talk about Ella. Greg always does this, always deflects uncomfortable truths by turning questions on his questioner. In this mood, he’d draw blood without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to, and just doesn’t care how much his defensive tactics hurt anyone else. Well, two could play.
“She’s a grown woman, House. She knows her own mind, she can decide for herself what makes her happy.” Blue eyes meet brown, and House’s faint nod acknowledges the point.
“And that doesn’t include me.”
Wilson picks up his empty coffee cup and stands. “Not anymore.”
As he walks back to the building, leaving House sitting alone under the barren tree, his last words echo in his mind. Not anymore. He wonders if he had been talking more about House, or about himself.
He’s not a philanderer anymore. He has come close, more times than he likes to admit, but hasn’t crossed the line. He knows he owes House for that. But he’s also not a good husband - not anymore. He owes House for that some, too. No, that’s not fair. It was his decision to distance himself, his decision to be gone so much when things had gotten hard. House is just the friend who always opens the door to him, no questions asked.
He is fairly sure that Julie still loves him, despite everything. She had curled against him so sweetly, after. She had cried, but she had done it on his shoulder, as though there was still comfort in his touch. He is pretty certain he still loves her. It is hard to know, when love is all mixed up with frustration and hurt. And, Wilson reluctantly acknowledges, with anger. It doesn’t feel like he has the right to be angry at Julie, but he is. He has worked harder at this relationship than any other in his life, has kept his promises, has not strayed. It doesn’t matter.
Wilson nods absently at the nurse who pauses on her way out the patio door to hold it open for him.
Julie had pretty much stopped speaking to him after the first condom. They had talked endlessly about having children, the same arguments round and round for months. At 34, Julie was feeling the urgency of age, that her ‘now or never’ time was fast approaching. His refusal was adamant, and unexplained. “Because I don’t want to,” was all the reason he ever gave. Julie got progressively more frustrated, more desperate, until he’d begun to worry that she might take matters into her own hands and discontinue her birth control without telling him. The condom had been a slap in the face. Julie was a smart girl, it hadn’t taken her long to recognize the mistrust it signified, or the intransigence of his refusal.
Things might be better, or at least not so bad, if he could offer her an explanation she could understand - if he disliked children, or he had some dire genetic legacy he didn’t want to pass on. But the truth is that he can’t make Julie understand, because he doesn’t understand. He just knows that the idea feels wrong.
Wilson’s pager beeps as he steps into the elevator. He checks the display - room 426, Seth Greer’s room. He’d left instructions with the resident to let him know if there were any blips in Seth’s condition, and he wonders what has come up.
At the nurse’s station, the resident is waiting for him. “He spiked a fever,” the young doctor says, handing him the chart. “I’ve ordered blood cultures. You want ceftriaxone and levofloxicin while we wait for the cultures to come back?”
Wilson looks at the latest round of vitals recorded on the chart. A temp of 101.6 almost certainly means that Seth has picked up an infection. “Yes. And make sure Dr. Morgen gets copied on everything, would you?” He pulls his stethoscope from his pocket and heads into Seth’s room to examine him and talk to his mom.
Evening finds Wilson sprawled on the comfy yellow chair in House’s office, nursing a tumbler of rum and watching House practice barrel rolls with his yo-yo. “Cal Ripken, Jr.”
House scoffs. “Only because he’s famous for breaking Lou Gehrig’s streak. Get real. Ernie Banks.”
Wilson raises a brow. “I thought he played like half his career at first base.”
“Doesn’t mean he still wasn’t the greatest shortstop ever. From 1955 to 1960, he hit more home runs than Mantle, Mays, or Aaron. They didn’t move him to first until the ’62 season.”
“Sure, but didn’t he also lead the league in field errors somewhere in there? Good point about Ripken, though. Okay, I’ve got it. Honus Wagner. He tied Babe Ruth for Hall of Fame votes, and unlike Banks he could catch a ball.”
“Couldn’t hit one, though. Where are the homers?”
“Dead-ball era. Nobody could hit homers.” House appears stymied, and Wilson presses his advantage. “Besides, you ought to love Wagner. He led the league eight times in thefts. Sounds like your kind of guy.”
House loses the rhythm of the barrel roll and the yo-yo falls ungracefully out of the trick. He looks up at Wilson reproachfully, then away. “I apologized for that.”
They aren’t talking about baseball anymore.
“Do you think she’ll forgive you?” It isn’t an idle question. Stacy had been righteously angry when she figured out House had pilfered her file from the therapist’s office.
House’s lips twitch in a gesture Wilson can’t quite read. “No.” He glances back up. “Maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
House doesn’t say the rest, but Wilson knows anyway. Stacy is standing by her man, and House both admires her for it and wishes she wouldn’t. House walks to the window and stares into the darkness. Wilson knows his friend is remembering the months after the surgery, how bitterly he’d fought his disability and how hateful he’d been to Stacy.
“No. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.” Wilson glances at his watch. It is after seven. Swallowing the last of the rum, he sets the glass down and rises, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “It’s late. I’ve got to go.”
“Going home?”
There is a certain emphasis on the last word that tells him House has not been oblivious to the nights he’s slept in his office. Wilson is oddly touched. He’d thought Greg had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d overlooked that little detail.
“I promised Julie I’d be home for dinner at 7:30.”
House turns away from the window, watching him as he collects his coat and briefcase. The expected sarcastic quip doesn’t come. Instead, House just tracks him with hooded, unreadable eyes. When at last he speaks, it is soft, almost grudging. “It’s good that you’re trying. It won’t be easy, with her right here at the hospital every day.”
For a moment, Wilson is confused. Julie works at an art gallery, not the hospital. Then he realizes that House, of course, means Ella. He closes his eyes and blows a long breath through his nose, then looks at House. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“She’s smart, attractive, apparently available, and … she makes you blush, which is both becoming and obvious on your peaches-and-cream complexion.”
Wilson smiles, despite himself. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, for once. There’s nothing there. We’re friends; I’ve known her a long time.” He meets House’s eyes squarely. “But we have never slept together.”
Disbelief is plain on House’s face. “What, is she gay?”
He mentally apologizes to Ella. This is not his story to tell, but House is going to figure it out sooner or later. “No, she’s widowed, and chooses not to get involved again.”
The dramatic eyeroll is entirely predictable. “Another widow? Aren’t we over our quota or something? At least it’ll give Cameron someone to bond with.”
“I… don’t think so.”
House raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for further explanation.
“Ella doesn’t talk about it, and even if she wanted to, I think Cameron is about the last person she’d choose. They don’t really have that much in common.”
“What’s not to bond over? Beloved husbands struck down before their time…”
Wilson smiles grimly. House is going to love this. “Because Ella’s the one that killed him.”
With that, he turns to go home. It isn’t often he gets the last word.
Chapter 5
“I thought I could win her back.” House’s voice is casual as he squints at some distant point of noninterest.
Wilson shifts gears with the ease of long practice. He likes House’s problems better than his own, anyway. “By calling her names, taunting her husband, and invading her privacy? Brilliant plan. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because, Doctor Pantypeeler, name-calling is how your relationships end.” Humor is safer ground, and House meets his eyes with a playful smirk. “Mine, on the other hand, start that way. It’s part of my charm.”
Wilson regards House thoughtfully for a long moment. “Did you really think she would leave him?”
House looks away. “I think she’d be happier.”
“Really? Or just that you’d be happier?”
Exasperation colors House’s sigh. “He … he lets her walk all over him. He doesn’t challenge her. She might as well have married a Care Bear.”
“Or maybe she’s just discovered the pleasure of having a conversation with someone who doesn’t make everything about winning.”
“Great insight from someone who’s conversed his way into two divorces. And speaking of divorce, how is Dr. Morgen today? Coffee in your office again this morning, I noticed.”
“Are we back to this again? You know, just because you don’t know how to make friends with people…”
“Oh, please,” House interrupts. “You don’t make friends with women. You make wives of them.”
Wilson bites back a sharp retort. He doesn’t want to have this fight, doesn’t want to talk to House about Julie, definitely doesn’t want to talk about Ella. Greg always does this, always deflects uncomfortable truths by turning questions on his questioner. In this mood, he’d draw blood without meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to, and just doesn’t care how much his defensive tactics hurt anyone else. Well, two could play.
“She’s a grown woman, House. She knows her own mind, she can decide for herself what makes her happy.” Blue eyes meet brown, and House’s faint nod acknowledges the point.
“And that doesn’t include me.”
Wilson picks up his empty coffee cup and stands. “Not anymore.”
As he walks back to the building, leaving House sitting alone under the barren tree, his last words echo in his mind. Not anymore. He wonders if he had been talking more about House, or about himself.
He’s not a philanderer anymore. He has come close, more times than he likes to admit, but hasn’t crossed the line. He knows he owes House for that. But he’s also not a good husband - not anymore. He owes House for that some, too. No, that’s not fair. It was his decision to distance himself, his decision to be gone so much when things had gotten hard. House is just the friend who always opens the door to him, no questions asked.
He is fairly sure that Julie still loves him, despite everything. She had curled against him so sweetly, after. She had cried, but she had done it on his shoulder, as though there was still comfort in his touch. He is pretty certain he still loves her. It is hard to know, when love is all mixed up with frustration and hurt. And, Wilson reluctantly acknowledges, with anger. It doesn’t feel like he has the right to be angry at Julie, but he is. He has worked harder at this relationship than any other in his life, has kept his promises, has not strayed. It doesn’t matter.
Wilson nods absently at the nurse who pauses on her way out the patio door to hold it open for him.
Julie had pretty much stopped speaking to him after the first condom. They had talked endlessly about having children, the same arguments round and round for months. At 34, Julie was feeling the urgency of age, that her ‘now or never’ time was fast approaching. His refusal was adamant, and unexplained. “Because I don’t want to,” was all the reason he ever gave. Julie got progressively more frustrated, more desperate, until he’d begun to worry that she might take matters into her own hands and discontinue her birth control without telling him. The condom had been a slap in the face. Julie was a smart girl, it hadn’t taken her long to recognize the mistrust it signified, or the intransigence of his refusal.
Things might be better, or at least not so bad, if he could offer her an explanation she could understand - if he disliked children, or he had some dire genetic legacy he didn’t want to pass on. But the truth is that he can’t make Julie understand, because he doesn’t understand. He just knows that the idea feels wrong.
Wilson’s pager beeps as he steps into the elevator. He checks the display - room 426, Seth Greer’s room. He’d left instructions with the resident to let him know if there were any blips in Seth’s condition, and he wonders what has come up.
At the nurse’s station, the resident is waiting for him. “He spiked a fever,” the young doctor says, handing him the chart. “I’ve ordered blood cultures. You want ceftriaxone and levofloxicin while we wait for the cultures to come back?”
Wilson looks at the latest round of vitals recorded on the chart. A temp of 101.6 almost certainly means that Seth has picked up an infection. “Yes. And make sure Dr. Morgen gets copied on everything, would you?” He pulls his stethoscope from his pocket and heads into Seth’s room to examine him and talk to his mom.
Evening finds Wilson sprawled on the comfy yellow chair in House’s office, nursing a tumbler of rum and watching House practice barrel rolls with his yo-yo. “Cal Ripken, Jr.”
House scoffs. “Only because he’s famous for breaking Lou Gehrig’s streak. Get real. Ernie Banks.”
Wilson raises a brow. “I thought he played like half his career at first base.”
“Doesn’t mean he still wasn’t the greatest shortstop ever. From 1955 to 1960, he hit more home runs than Mantle, Mays, or Aaron. They didn’t move him to first until the ’62 season.”
“Sure, but didn’t he also lead the league in field errors somewhere in there? Good point about Ripken, though. Okay, I’ve got it. Honus Wagner. He tied Babe Ruth for Hall of Fame votes, and unlike Banks he could catch a ball.”
“Couldn’t hit one, though. Where are the homers?”
“Dead-ball era. Nobody could hit homers.” House appears stymied, and Wilson presses his advantage. “Besides, you ought to love Wagner. He led the league eight times in thefts. Sounds like your kind of guy.”
House loses the rhythm of the barrel roll and the yo-yo falls ungracefully out of the trick. He looks up at Wilson reproachfully, then away. “I apologized for that.”
They aren’t talking about baseball anymore.
“Do you think she’ll forgive you?” It isn’t an idle question. Stacy had been righteously angry when she figured out House had pilfered her file from the therapist’s office.
House’s lips twitch in a gesture Wilson can’t quite read. “No.” He glances back up. “Maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
House doesn’t say the rest, but Wilson knows anyway. Stacy is standing by her man, and House both admires her for it and wishes she wouldn’t. House walks to the window and stares into the darkness. Wilson knows his friend is remembering the months after the surgery, how bitterly he’d fought his disability and how hateful he’d been to Stacy.
“No. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.” Wilson glances at his watch. It is after seven. Swallowing the last of the rum, he sets the glass down and rises, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “It’s late. I’ve got to go.”
“Going home?”
There is a certain emphasis on the last word that tells him House has not been oblivious to the nights he’s slept in his office. Wilson is oddly touched. He’d thought Greg had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he’d overlooked that little detail.
“I promised Julie I’d be home for dinner at 7:30.”
House turns away from the window, watching him as he collects his coat and briefcase. The expected sarcastic quip doesn’t come. Instead, House just tracks him with hooded, unreadable eyes. When at last he speaks, it is soft, almost grudging. “It’s good that you’re trying. It won’t be easy, with her right here at the hospital every day.”
For a moment, Wilson is confused. Julie works at an art gallery, not the hospital. Then he realizes that House, of course, means Ella. He closes his eyes and blows a long breath through his nose, then looks at House. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“She’s smart, attractive, apparently available, and … she makes you blush, which is both becoming and obvious on your peaches-and-cream complexion.”
Wilson smiles, despite himself. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, for once. There’s nothing there. We’re friends; I’ve known her a long time.” He meets House’s eyes squarely. “But we have never slept together.”
Disbelief is plain on House’s face. “What, is she gay?”
He mentally apologizes to Ella. This is not his story to tell, but House is going to figure it out sooner or later. “No, she’s widowed, and chooses not to get involved again.”
The dramatic eyeroll is entirely predictable. “Another widow? Aren’t we over our quota or something? At least it’ll give Cameron someone to bond with.”
“I… don’t think so.”
House raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for further explanation.
“Ella doesn’t talk about it, and even if she wanted to, I think Cameron is about the last person she’d choose. They don’t really have that much in common.”
“What’s not to bond over? Beloved husbands struck down before their time…”
Wilson smiles grimly. House is going to love this. “Because Ella’s the one that killed him.”
With that, he turns to go home. It isn’t often he gets the last word.
Chapter 5